Wormtail's Story
by Avery-Lou
Summary: Peter Pettigrew wasn't always a traitor. Once, he was just a shy boy who wanted to make friends. Meet the brother James Potter would trust with his family's safety, the boy who became an illegal Animagus to help his best friend. Wormtail, a true Marauder.
1. Year One: The First Choice

**A/N: This is a companion to the _James Potter_ series. Early chapters can be read independently, but I would recommend reading the main series simultaneously. Also check out _Padfoot's Story_ and _Moony's Story_.**

**This chapter takes place after the first week of term - roughly halfway through chapter 6 of _James Potter and the Immortal Icon._**

* * *

**The First Choice**

_ "Now this is a tough one."_

_ "What do you mean?"_

_ "Oh, nothing _bad._ You, Peter Pettigrew, have a choice to make."_

_ "I… I do?"_

_ "Yes, indeed. It's clear to me that you have got a lot of potential, although you haven't come into your own just yet. Whichever House you choose can help you grow, in its own way."_

_ "But what House would want me? I'm too stupid for Ravenclaw, too useless for Slytherin. I'm not brave enough for Gryffindor. I bet I'm too much of a duffer for Hufflepuff, even. I don't belong here."_

_ "Well, that's just not true."_

_ "Is so!"_

_ "Now see here, Mr. Pettigrew. There is a place for everyone at Hogwarts."_

_ "…Even me?"_

_ "Especially you. I'll grant you that you haven't Slytherin's ambition or Ravenclaw's thirst for knowledge, but you would do perfectly well in either Hufflepuff or Gryffindor."_

_ "I— really?"_

_ "Yes. I sense in you the potential for great loyalty and great courage__—_ if_ you choose to make it so_._ You could find good friends in Hufflepuff, could nurture that loyalty of yours, if you aren't afraid of some good old-fashioned hard work. Or perhaps Gryffindor's for you. Being around friends like that, you could find courage of your own. You could forge your own path in life. You might even surprise yourself. But the choice is yours."_

_ "…I can choose either one?"_

_ "Whichever you would like."_

_ "Then… I wanna be in Gryffindor."_

_ "I wish you the best, Peter Pettigrew. GRYFFINDOR!"_

-.-.-

_I don't belong here_.

It was not the first time this notion had occurred to Peter since his Sorting just one week ago, but it was the first time that tears accompanied the thought.

He sat alone in the first year Gryffindor boys' dormitory. The others were all down at lunch, but Peter wasn't feeling particularly hungry at the moment. Besides, it wasn't as though anyone would miss him. He wondered if it was too late to undo his Sorting – to choose Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor. The Hat had told him he could find friends there. Maybe not being so utterly alone would have made the past week a little less dreadful.

Peter had never been a bright boy, or a particularly talented one. He'd performed only weak accidental magic as a child, and that only very rarely, and now that he had come to Hogwarts, he found that he couldn't keep up with the workload. In Herbology, everything he touched seemed to die overnight, so even when Peter managed not to upend his seedbox, he would return a few days later to find only a few twisted brown threads poking up from the soil.

_That's alright, dear_, Professor Sprout had said on Thursday, the second day of classes. _You'll catch on soon enough._

Three classes later, nothing had changed.

Professor Juniper had spent all of the first two Defense lessons lecturing on dark wizards and their crimes, but Peter couldn't keep any of them straight. To make matters worse, he'd spilled pumpkin juice all over his notes at lunch yesterday, so he couldn't even read over what Juniper had said about Julian the Ugly and Timothy the Cruel— Or was Timothy the ugly one, and Julian cruel? Peter couldn't remember.

Astronomy that first night had been an unmitigated disaster. Half asleep on his feet, Peter had hardly been able to focus on Professor Ruche's words. The man may as well have been speaking French for all Peter understood, and when he looked through his telescope, he didn't see planets or moons or constellations, just a lot of indistinguishable white blobs. And then his tired, clumsy hands had knocked his telescope off the tower to the ground a hundred feet below.

Transfigurations the next morning was, if possible, even worse. After one lesson, Peter knew he was completely useless at the subject. Everyone else had managed to turn the length of copper wire into thread— everyone but Peter. Professor McGonagall had held him back after class to work with him further, but still without luck. Tired and frustrated, he'd only succeeded in setting his notes on fire. Had McGonagall not managed to save them before they were totally destroyed, Peter would have just given up on Hogwarts right then.

He'd tried to stay awake during History of Magic— truly, he had. But Professor Binns had such a monotonous voice, and the things he was talking about (philosophy, Peter thought, although it might have been politics) were just _so _boring…

So that was yet another class he was behind in after the first week.

Charms hadn't been _so_ bad. Peter had at least managed to light his wand with the spell Professor Flitwick had taught them, _Lumos_. But even so, Peter was the last to do it, and he couldn't get it to stay lit for more than a minute at a time. Meanwhile James Potter and Lily Evans seemed to be competing to see who could keep on the longest, and Sirius Black got his wand to shine so brightly Peter was still seeing spots half an hour later.

It wasn't fair!

Peter tried harder than any of them, and he still couldn't do the simplest thing right. His wand felt strange in his hand, and he could practically _feel_ it rebelling against him every time he tried to cast a spell.

The only bright spot in all of this was Potions. There was no wandwork in Potions, no incantations to say or dates to remember. It was just following directions, and that was something even Peter could manage. Everyone else seemed to despise the class, but for Peter, the hours in the cool, quiet dungeons three times a week were like a breath of fresh air.

If only everything could be as easy as Potions.

But it wasn't, and so after another miserable Herbology lesson in the stifling greenhouses, Peter had trudged up to the dormitory, collapsed on his bed, and let his tears soak his pillow. Maybe, he thought dismally, maybe if he owled his parents, they would come get him and he could just be homeschooled. It wasn't as though he had any friends to stick around here for.

The door opened with a faint squeak.

"Oh, hello."

Remus Lupin stood for a moment in the doorway, looking immensely uncomfortable, before he hurriedly crossed to his bed and busied himself digging through his school bag. He was gracious enough to pretend not to notice as Peter scrubbed his tear-streaked face and found a tissue to blow his nose.

After a moment, Remus shot a surreptitious glance his way. "Are… are you alright?"

Peter tensed, waiting for the ridicule, but Remus sounded apologetic as he hastened on.

"It's only… I noticed you weren't at lunch, and I wondered if you weren't feeling well…"

"I wasn't hungry."

The empty words hung in the air, and Peter had the impression that Remus saw straight through his evasive answer. The other boy's eerie golden eyes studied him for a long moment before turning back to his bag.

"I see."

Pulling out several books from his bag, Remus turned to his desk and began putting them back in place. Peter watched silently, an idea forming in the back of his mind. Remus was one of the brighter students in their year; though he wasn't as show-offish as people like James and Sirius, Remus had been among the first to master the spells Professors Flitwick and McGonagall had taught them.

Would he be willing to help Peter?

Peter bit his lip, afraid to ask. What if Remus made fun of him? The other boys already snickered whenever he spilled potting soil in Herbology, or when he stuttered and fumbled his way through answering Professor Juniper's questions. They all thought he was useless and stupid. Why should Remus be any different?

But Remus had noticed Peter's absence at lunch when no one else had. Remus had seen him crying like a baby just now and hadn't said anything.

Maybe Remus _was_ different.

"H-hey, Remus?"

Remus looked up from the book he'd been reading. "Yes?"

"I…" Peter found a discolored spot on his crimson bedspread and fixed his eyes there. "Well, er, I was wondering… That is, I was hoping… I – er – I need help."

He bit his lip, waiting for the mockery, the derisive laughter. Instead—

"With what?"

The question was kind, mildly curious. Not at all what Peter had expected. He risked a glance at Remus, who had set his book aside, before returning his gaze to the bedspread.

"With… everything?" With a weak smile, Peter shrugged helplessly. "I don't get it— any of it. I can't tell the difference between Saturn and Altair— I can't remember the _half_ of what the professors tell us— I can't do magic worth a knut!" He buried his face in his hands. "I'm a complete duffer!"

"No, you're not!"

At Remus' sharp tone, Peter sucked in his breath and looked up nervously. Remus himself looked a little abashed at the outburst and when he continued, it was in a much softer voice.

"You _aren't_. Look at Potions. You're better than most of our year!"

"You really think so?"

"Absolutely." Studying Peter for another long moment, Remus nodded. "How about this: I'll help you out with spells and studying and what-not— on one condition."

Peter was almost afraid to ask. "What's that?"

"You help me with Potions." Remus grimaced. "I'm complete rubbish at it… Deal?"

A smile spread across Peter's face as he nodded vigorously, thinking that maybe – just maybe – he might have made the right decision, after all. Maybe he could find friends, courage, and happiness in Gryffindor. Maybe he belonged at Hogwarts, after all.

"Deal!"


	2. Year One: Of Bullies and Gryffindors

**A/N: Takes place during chapter 11 of _James Potter and the Immortal Icon_.**

* * *

**Of Bullies and Gryffindors**

The next few months weren't as bad as he'd feared – with Remus' help, Peter was able to keep up in most of his classes, and though he remained far from the top of the class, Peter hadn't received a single T in ages. Two of the other Gryffindor first years, Frank Longbottom and Alexander Thorne, were nice enough to Peter, although he wasn't as close to them as he was to Remus. He often sat with Frank and Alexander in lessons and at lunch, since Remus usually sat with Lily Evans.

In short, Peter had found friends.

Unfortunately, the rest of the school wasn't so kind. The older Gryffindors seemed to agree, on the whole, that Peter was beneath their attention. They chased him out of the common room when they wanted his spot, they stole his dessert at dinner, they knocked into him in the corridors, and always, _always_, they looked through him as though he weren't even there.

Peter hated feeling like he was invisible, but he was just a lowly first year; what could he do about it?

And anyway, Peter would take the older Gryffindors over the Slytherins any day. The Slytherins – particularly the first and second years, who were neither brave enough nor stupid enough to pick a fight with older students – seemed to recognize that Peter was the weakest of the Gryffindors. Whenever they caught him alone in the corridors, they would pepper him with insults and jinxes (nothing that left evidence, of course; only tripping jinxes and occasionally a stinging hex that they would remove before they left).

Whenever possible, Peter took to traversing the castle with his housemates and spending hours in the library with Remus, working on homework long after he wanted to return to the dormitory to relax. He dared not leave without Remus, for although there had been a few incidents when the two of them were together, the Slytherins generally preferred their prey to be alone.

But then Remus' mother had fallen ill again, and he'd left for Christmas holidays a week early, leaving Peter without his surest defense against the bullies. It wasn't so bad, for the most part. He'd managed to tag along with Frank and Alexander most of the time, and he hid out in Gryffindor Tower when classes were over for the day. Peter was getting good at hiding.

He made it through Monday and most of Tuesday without incident. Then, just as Herbology was about to let out, he knocked against a sack of potting soil as he went to put away his seed tray. Professor Sprout didn't look angry, but she asked Peter to clean up the mess before he left. A few minutes later, the other first years had disappeared back to the castle, and Professor Sprout had left to meet her next class.

Peter was left alone in the greenhouse.

When he had finished dumping the soil back into the sack, Peter gathered up his things and sprinted out into the snow, hoping to catch up with his classmates and get back to Gryffindor Tower without any confrontations.

"Hey there, Pettigrew."

Peter's blood froze as he heard the all-too-familiar dim-witted chortle of Henry Wilkes. The large, broad-faced second year stood just a few feet away, seemingly waiting for Peter to appear. Beside him was weedy, dark-haired Evan Rosier, who usually took care of the jinxes while the bigger, stronger Wilkes held Peter down.

Together, Wilkes and Rosier had singled out Peter as their favorite target. Just his luck that they would be waiting outside the greenhouses the one day Peter had to stay after the rest of the class had left.

Peter shot a frantic look toward the castle doors, hoping to catch sight of someone – a student, a professor, even the caretaker, Argus Filch. But by now, everyone would be in class; Professor Sprout had taken her NEWT class down to the Forbidden Forest, and no one else had any reason to be outside at quarter-past two. Peter was on his own.

"_Tarantallegra!_" Rosier hissed, and before Peter could so much as shout for help, he felt his legs jerk and twist under him. He lost his balance and fell face first into a snow drift. "What're you doing here, Petey-boy?"

"Yeah," said Wilkes thickly. "What're you doing here?"

"You're no wizard! Look at you!"

"Doesn't look like a wizard to me!"

Rosier spat on the ground by Peter's foot. "You're a disgrace, Pettigrew. You're practically a Squib! Why don't you go home? No one wants you here!"

"Go home, Squib!"

With a laugh, Rosier jerked his head toward Peter. "Get his bag."

"No, wait!" Peter cried, trying to snatch his bag before Wilkes could take it, but the other boy was stronger than Peter by far and wrested the bag from him, tearing a small hole in the side.

Rosier cackled as he took the bag from Wilkes. "Oh, no," he said gleefully. "It's ripping. Here, let me fix that. _Diffindo!_" A long, crooked tear appeared in the bag, and one of Peter's schoolbooks fell to the snow. "_Diffindo!_"

"Stop it!" Peter staggered to his feet, but Wilkes was there before he could go for his wand, forcing him down again and towering over him like a great, ugly gargoyle.

"_Diffindo! Diffindo!_ _Diffindo!_"

Peter watched, helpless, as Rosier reduced his bag to shreds of fabric. All of his books and parchment, his quills and ink, lay scattered on the ground, covered in snow. His notes would be ruined, and the essay he had to turn in to McGonagall on Thursday, which had temporarily avoided the snow by landing atop a mostly-dry flagstone, would surely go the same way once Rosier noticed it. Six hours of work for nothing.

Despite his attempts to fight back tears, Peter began to sniffle, his eyes stinging.

Rosier grinned. "Whatsa matter?"

"Leave me alone," Peter muttered, blinking furiously.

"No one here to save you, Petey," Wilkes said with a laugh.

Peter tried once more to gain his feet, but Wilkes shoved him roughly to the ground. Peter whimpered in fear as the two Slytherins stood shoulder-to-shoulder over him.

"Look at that, Wilkes!" A foul grin crossed Rosier's face. "The widdle baby's gonna cry!" Rosier raised his wand; Peter scrambled backward, his hand sliding in a patch of mud. He landed painfully on his elbows and waited for the jinxes to fly.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

Peter's head whipped around at the new voice. There, by the corner of the greenhouse, stood James Potter and Sirius Black, looking more livid than Peter had ever seen them. They both had their wands out and leveled at the Slytherins.

_They were going to fight the Slytherins._

Peter gaped at them. Wilkes and Rosier were second years; James and Sirius were first years, like Peter. Surely first years couldn't possibly win in a duel against second years?

"What are you doing?" James demanded, shooting Peter an appraising look.

"What's it to you, Potter?" Rosier demanded. "And _you_," he added to Sirius. "You ought to be on our side!"

"_Furnuculus!_" Sirius roared. Peter turned to follow the path of the hex and watched as Rosier yelped, boils erupting across his face.

Wilkes fumbled for his wand, but Peter knew he wasn't good with magic, so it was no surprise when James shouted a spell first:

"_Tarantallegra!_"

Just as Peter had a few moments earlier, Wilkes flailed his arms as his legs began to jerk, but it was no use. A moment later, he fell into a mud puddle.

"Go on!" Sirius growled. "Or do you want more?"

The Slytherins didn't need telling twice. Rosier grabbed his wand and sprinted away, Wilkes lurching after him.

"You alright?" James asked.

Peter sniffled a few times, wiping hastily at the tears crawling down his face, wishing James and Sirius didn't have to see him like this. The Slytherins were right; he was nothing but a crybaby, and now all of Gryffindor would know it.

"Thanks," Peter muttered, busying himself with collecting his fallen things. His school bag was wrecked beyond repair, but at least his Transfigurations essay was still legible.

To Peter's surprise, Sirius crouched beside him and held out a quill that had rolled away from everything else. "What happened?"

Peter shrugged. "Nothing." They didn't need to know all the details; surely they already thought him pathetic.

"You sure?" James reached out a hand to grip Peter's shoulder.

Peter nodded, surprised by the gesture. No one had ever tried to comfort him before, and Peter wasn't sure if he liked it or not. It would certainly be less embarrassing if James and Sirius would just go away and pretend this had never happened. But they remained where they were, watching Peter with concern written on their faces.

Biting his lip, Peter forced himself to speak. "They… they said I shouldn't be here. That I'm not—" _Not a wizard at all. _He cringed away from the notion, although he had been thinking it on and off since the start of term. "Not good enough."

"What?" James snapped. "Those slimy little—!"

"Don't listen to the Slytherins, Pete," Sirius said firmly. "They're arses, the whole lot of them."

"But…" _But they're right._

"No." James' voice was hard, and Peter flinched. James took a deep breath before continuing. "Sirius is right. You're a perfectly good wizard, and a hundred times better person than the two of them put together."

Peter's heart leapt into his throat. This was James Potter speaking – one of the brightest wizards in Peter's year. "You really think so?"

James grinned. "You bet."

"Absolutely," said Sirius.

Peter couldn't help but smile. Remus had said the same thing, sure, but somehow it meant more coming from James and Sirius, whom Peter had always thought had an air of superiority. That they would take the time to tell Peter he was a good wizard… It was like a dream! "Thanks," Peter said earnestly.

"Don't mention it," said James, slapping Peter on the back. "We're friends, aren't we?"

At that, Peter's jaw dropped. _Friends?_ With _James Potter _and _Sirius Black?_ "W-we are?"

Sirius chuckled, as though the answer were obvious. "Of course we are. You helped us get back at Gilderoy, didn't you? You're our roommate, aren't you?"

Peter nodded; what else could he do?

"Then we're friends," said Sirius.

James beamed. "C'mon, Pete. We know a bunch of spells you can use against gits like Wilkes and Rosier. We'll teach you if you want."

And before he knew it, Peter was part of their group. He learned spells to use against the bullies and, even better, he learned where there were secret passages so he could _hide_ from the bullies. After all, James and Sirius might have been able to stand up to the Slytherins, but Peter was still just a nobody, and he would rather run away than make a fool of himself trying to duel. He'd only lose, and then the Slytherins would hex him even worse for trying to fight them.

For the rest of the week, Peter went everywhere with James and Sirius (except when they snuck out at night to explore the castle; Peter stayed behind where it was safe and professors couldn't give him detentions). With his two new friends around, the Slytherins wouldn't dare attack him.

In the end, it was one of the best weeks Peter had spent at Hogwarts, and he was only sad that he'd signed up to go home for the Christmas holidays. It would have been fun to spend some more time with James and Sirius. But it was too late to change his mind, so at the end of the week, Peter boarded the Hogwarts Express and returned to London, his thoughts lingering at Hogwarts with the two best friends a boy could ask for.


	3. Interlude

**A/N: Takes place between _James Potter and the Immortal Icon_ (Year One) and _James Potter and the Shrieking Shack_ (Year Two). Although the interludes can be read in any order, this is chronologically second, following _Padfoot's Story_ and preceding _Moony's __Story_.**

* * *

**Interlude: Summer 1972**

The first words out of Peter's mouth when he saw his parents on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters were, "Can my friends stay over this summer?"

"What, no hello?" Mr. Pettigrew teased, pulling his son into a hug.

Peter blushed. "Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum."

"Hello, sweetheart," Mrs. Pettigrew said with a smile. "How was your year?"

Peter fidgeted as he thought of all that had happened – the attacks, the pranks and sneaking around after hours, the battle with del Bene that had landed him and all his dormmates in the Hospital Wing. "Fine," he said evasively. "So can my friends stay over?"

Mr. Pettigrew laughed. "I don't see why not. We'll talk about it at home."

When they got home, however, the topic of James, Sirius, and Remus' visit was lost in the chaos of unpacking, followed by a large and cheery dinner, an unexpected visit from one of Mr. Pettigrew's work friends, and an impromptu game of wizard's chess, which Peter lost miserably despite his father's attempts to let him win.

It was late in the night before Peter realized that they had not yet discussed their plans for the holidays, but Mrs. Pettigrew sent Peter off to bed with a promise to discuss it in the morning. In the morning, of course, Mr. Pettigrew had to go to work. And since Mrs. Pettigrew said there was no point making plans without him, the conversation was delayed yet more.

Over the next few days, Peter began to receive letters from his friends. James was first, with a foot-long letter on the second day of holidays telling Peter all about how he'd started practicing Quidditch at the pitch near his how, and how he couldn't wait to try out for the House team in September. In his response, Peter was careful to assure James that he'd asked his parents about having them over, but they hadn't had a chance to figure anything out yet.

Sirius' letter came next, the day after James':

_Dear Peter,_

_Hello. It's Sirius, one of the blokes in your year. I'm not sure  
if you remember me, seeing as we didn't really talk much  
last year. I'm writing because I reckon we have a lot in  
common, and I thought maybe we could get to know each  
other. I'll start._

_My name is Sirius Black. I'm twelve years old. I have one  
younger brother named Regulus, and a house elf named  
Kreacher. I live in London...  
_

What followed was nearly a full scroll of parchment of introduction, covering everything from Sirius' favorite color to what the Blacks had eaten for Sirius' first dinner back from Hogwarts (hippogriff steaks and apple tarts, which Sirius said were almost as good as the food at school) to the bird that had built a nest outside the library window and kept shrieking whenever someone was trying to read until Kreacher chased the bird away.

It was as though Sirius and Peter had never met, and on top of that, it sounded so unlike Sirius that Peter wondered whether someone else had written it. Something was obviously going on at Sirius' house; Peter just didn't know what. He stared blankly at the letter, wondering whether he ought to take it to his parents.

Before Peter could decide, James' humongous Eagle Owl, Luftwing, arrived with another letter from James.

_Peter—_

_I wrote Sirius last night with Andromeda's parchment, and  
Sirius told me to tell you to ignore his letter. I guess he  
somehow tricked his folks into telling him he had to make  
friends with you, since he's not supposed to have anything to  
do with blood-traitors like me. They don't know that you and  
Sirius already know each other, so Sirius had to act like he  
was writing you out of the blue. Plus, his folks are reading his  
mail to make sure he's not writing anything bad about them,  
or sending secret letters to me or anything. He's hoping if he  
makes the letters long enough, they'll get bored and stop  
checking them._

_Anyway, you should write back like this is the first time  
you've ever talked. Introduce yourself like he did, and stuff.  
But Sirius says to stay away from anything his parents  
wouldn't like, like me or Remus, or our pranks. Or Gryffindor  
in general, really. Or the Slytherins... Or probably anything  
about Hogwarts, except maybe the classes. Mostly stick to  
talking about your family and what you've been doing so far  
this summer. And make it long if you can, so Sirius's folks  
get bored faster._

—_James_

_P.S.: Don't put anything about staying over at your place in  
your letter just yet. Sirius reckons he'll have to soften his  
parents up first if he's going to convince them._

Peter set to work at once writing a response. It was slow going, since he kept saying things about James and Remus and everything the four of them had done in the last year. In the end, he concluded that writing to Sirius was more work than one of McGonagall's essays, but more worthwhile.

But eventually Peter had a letter that, while not quite as long as Sirius', took up most of a scroll of parchment and, as far as Peter could tell, contained nothing Mr. and Mrs. Black would object to. After dinner, he copied the whole thing to a new scroll of parchment so the Blacks wouldn't see just how much he had scratched out, and he sent it off with the family owl to Grimmauld Place.

The next day, Luftwing arrived with another letter from James:

_Peter—_

_Sirius wanted me to tell you your letter was brilliant. His  
parents couldn't find a single thing to complain about! He  
says that if you send a couple more like that, his parents might  
actually let him stay over at your place! He's been on his best  
behavior lately (Sirius Black, behaving? I'd pay gold to see  
that!) so his parents won't get mad at him, but I guess they  
aren't quite convinced. (I wonder why?) Anyway, not causing  
trouble is driving him barmy, so we'll have to make up for it  
when we see him. Let's hope everything works out alright._

—_James_

Peter reread the letter several times, a warm sensation swelling in his chest with every repetition. _Your letter was brilliant_, Sirius had said._ Brilliant_. Peter had never been called brilliant before. He couldn't help but beam with pride.

Several more weeks passed without incident. Peter continued writing to James (who wrote back just as quickly) and Remus (who sent nothing at all) and fabricating innocent letters to send to Sirius. Eventually the Blacks stopped reading Sirius' mail, and although he was still careful not to say anything dangerous, Sirius' letters began to sound more like himself. Peter, too, stopped working so hard on his letters, but he had to admit that part of him missed the sense of danger that came with helping his friend sneak around under his parents' noses.

Plans for the summer were slow in the making, since Peter's father had to check on some things at work. Evidently the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures wanted to hold a party in August, and as Mr. Pettigrew had offered his house, James, Sirius, and Remus wouldn't be able to come until afterwards.

But finally everything was worked out, a date set (the eighteenth of August), and all that remained was to ask his friends. After checking with Sirius through James that it was safe to put it in a letter, Peter sent the invitation first to Sirius, figuring he would ask James and Remus once he was sure the date would work. He experienced a kind of giddy pleasure as he watched the owl disappear into the distance. This would be the first time he would have friends over— the first time, in fact, that he'd _had_ friends to invite over— and he couldn't wait.

The eighteenth of August couldn't come fast enough.


	4. Year Two: Slug Club Shun

**A/N: Set during chapter 7 of _James Potter and the Shrieking Shack_.  
**

* * *

**Slug Club Shun**

"Hey."

Peter couldn't help but think that Remus sounded tired as he slid into the chair opposite Peter. It had been close to half an hour since Remus and Peter had parted ways, Peter to find a table in the library to work on their Charms essay and Remus to get his own half-finished essay, which he'd forgotten in their dormitory.

"Hi," Peter said, studying Remus. "What took so long?"

Shrugging, Remus pulled out his Charms book and essay. "Oh, you know. James and Sirius were just being themselves. Didn't want to go to Professor Slughorn's party."

"Oh." Peter's heart sank, and he stared blankly at the tabletop. James and Sirius had been invited to the "Slug Club," as everyone called it, at the start of term, and though Peter hadn't said anything, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since.

At first, it was innocent curiosity. Peter had never heard of professors throwing parties before, so he'd asked around Gryffindor to see if anyone knew what it was about. Before long, he'd been directed to Eliot Donovan, the sixth-year prefect and a member of the infamous club. Eliot had told Peter all about Slughorn's exclusive circle, made up of his favorite students, the ones Slughorn thought were on their way to greatness.

It was then that Peter felt his first twinge of jealousy.

Peter knew he wasn't a good student or a gifted wizard. If not for Remus' generous help, if not for the way James and Sirius helped him practice new spells with endless enthusiasm, then Peter doubted he would have passed his first year exams… with one exception.

Despite his hopeless ineptitude at spells and bookwork, Peter had found one area in which he excelled. Sirius mastered every charm he encountered almost instantly; James could transfigure anything with ease; Remus, the smartest of them all, earned top grades in almost every class. But Peter – little Peter, useless Peter – outshone them all when it came to Potions. He was a mediocre wizard but a talented potioneer. Slughorn himself had told Peter that he was one of the best in his year.

Potions was, by far, his favorite class, and Slughorn his favorite professor, which perhaps was why it stung to know that Slughorn had overlooked Peter in favor of his more talented friends.

"Everything alright?" Remus asked suddenly.

Startled, Peter shoved away his brooding thoughts. "W-what?" he asked. "Oh, er, yeah. Fine."

Remus set his quill aside and frowned reproachfully. "Peter, whatever it is, you can tell me. No secrets, right?"

Peter cringed inwardly as Sirius' words from the train came back to him. _Friends don't keep secrets from each other._ All four boys had agreed almost at once. They kept no secrets from each other— but they swore to always keep secrets _for _one another, which meant Peter could trust Remus. He could tell Remus what was on his mind and trust that Remus wouldn't tell anyone, except perhaps James and Sirius, and they were all friends anyway.

"Right," he said, glancing at Remus. If anyone would understand what Peter was feeling, it would be Remus. Remus was a top-notch student; he deserved to be a part of the Slug Club far more than Peter did. "Remus, can I… Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," said Remus.

Peter paused, hesitant to admit his jealousy. But it was _Remus_. There was nothing to be nervous about. "Are you jealous?" he asked. "Of James and Sirius? That Slughorn sent _them_ invitations, but not us?"

Blinking in surprise, Remus frowned. "Not really…"

"Oh. Right." Peter squeezed his eyes shut, feeling like an idiot. Of course Remus wasn't jealous. Remus was too nice to begrudge his friends their good fortune.

"Peter," said Remus quickly, leaning forward, "look. I don't know why Professor Slughorn asked them to come and not us. Maybe he knew their parents. Maybe he's a fan of the pranks they're always pulling. Maybe he just likes them." Remus shrugged amiably. "I don't really care. People are going to think what they want to; you can't change how they feel about you."

Remus paused, and Peter considered his words. Ever since coming to Hogwarts, Peter had been picked on for being stupid and fat and useless. Everyone thought he didn't deserve to be there— everyone, that was, except James, Sirius, and Remus. A year ago, Peter had thought that if he just tried hard enough, then maybe everyone would see him as more than a duffer who might as well be a Squib. But since finding his best friends, Peter had spent less and less time caring about what other people thought.

Until the invitations came, and Peter realized that he still cared, after all.

"You can't live to make them happy, Peter," Remus said gently. "James and Sirius like us, whatever Slughorn thinks. Isn't that enough?"

Feeling suddenly guilty, Peter forced a smile. "Right." Of course Remus was right; it was stupid for Peter to be jealous of the others, over something as pointless as a boring old party. "I know. But—" Peter cut himself off before he could say something else stupid, something about how unfair it all was. Something that would make him sound like an ungrateful little kid. "Er, about the essay…"

Fortunately, Remus accepted Peter's abrupt change of topic without question and happily spent the next half hour helping Peter with the Charms essay. As the evening wore on, however, Remus grew pale and distant, and Peter wondered if he had come down with something. Remus, however, continued working doggedly on his essay until, with a hiss of pain, he clutched at his head.

"Remus?" Peter asked, abandoning his essay to move to Remus' side. "Are you alright?"

"Just a headache," Remus grunted. He paused, then, fingers twisting his hair, he continued: "I'm not feeling too well, actually. I should probably head up." Remus gathered his things and stood, swaying slightly. Peter moved to help him, but Remus staggered away, straightened, and fixed Peter with a thin smile. "Would you mind putting the books back for me?"

"Sure." Peter hesitated, wondering if he should help Remus back to the room. "Are you gonna make it? You look kinda—"

"I'll be fine," Remus cut across, hoisting his school bag. "Sorry."

What was he apologizing for? "It's alright," Peter said with a shake of his head. He started to ask Remus if he ought to go with him, but Remus had already disappeared through the door, leaving Peter alone in the dim, quiet library with a stack of books to put away and a half-finished Charms essay.


	5. Year Two: Traitor

**A/N: Set during chapter 17 of _James Potter and the Shrieking Shack_, before the events of _Padfoot's Story_ chapter 7.  
**

* * *

**Traitor**

"Remus?"

Peter saw the shock flit across his friend's face as Remus looked up from the toast he'd been pushing around his plate. His amber eyes were wary and his voice, when he spoke, was cautious.

"What?"

Frowning, Peter eyed the spot where Remus had chosen to sit – between a group of first years who looked too tired to carry on a conversation and some third and fourth year boys talking about Lynx's latest lesson. There was hardly room for Peter, let alone James and Sirius.

_Speaking of James…_ "Did something happen last night?" Peter tapped Davey Gudgeon on the shoulder, and the older boy obligingly shifted to Peter could sit down.

"What do you mean?" Remus asked, his expression more guarded than ever.

Peter shrugged. "Nothing, really. It's just that James seemed a bit…" He tried to think of a way to put it gently, as all the words his mind supplied would make his mother _Scourgify_ his mouth out. Hardly five minutes after Peter had woken up, James started to lay into him for leaving his robes lying around – never mind that everyone in their dormitory (Remus excepted) left their things lying around all the time. He wondered if Snape had gone to the professors, after all.

Something flickered in Remus' gaze, but it vanished before Peter could identify it. "A bit… what?"

Peter dropped his gaze and served himself a bowl of porridge, though he wasn't feeling particularly hungry. "He... he sort of... yelled at me."

"At _you_?"

Remus' tone was sharp and, startled, Peter looked up. The caution was gone from Remus' face, leaving behind unease and – unless Peter was imagining things – a flash of anger. For one moment, Peter thought that, like James, Remus was mad at _him_, and he frantically searched back for something he might have done the day before to offend his friends. He couldn't remember doing anything wrong… Sure, he hadn't gone to the forest with James and Sirius, but they didn't usually hold grudges over things like that.

After a moment, Remus sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry, Peter," he muttered. "This is all my fault."

"What? What do you—?"

Peter's voice fled as his gaze landed on Sirius and James, who had entered the Great Hall. With a strangled sound, Peter averted his gaze and tried to look busy with his food, hoping James would sit down and laugh off his foul mood – but at the same time fearful that James would only yell at him for not saving him a seat.

Beside him, Remus remained oblivious, or perhaps he was deliberately ignoring his friends' presence.

Then, as James and Sirius found seats farther up the table, Peter heard Sirius say, "Prat. You'd think _we'd_ betrayed the little berk."

Peter watched as Remus went red in the face, glanced furtively toward the other boys, and just as quickly turned away. No doubt Peter's confusion showed on his face (What did they mean, _betrayed_?) for Remus offered him a feeble smile and shook his head.

"Don't worry, Peter. I'll set them straight."

Then, dumping his cold toast onto Peter's empty plate, Remus grabbed his schoolbag and stood. For a moment, he seemed unsure of what to do, then, with a fleeting glance at Peter, who was still gaping at him, Remus squared his shoulders and stalked toward James and Sirius.

Peter shoved his breakfast aside and leaned forward to see around Davey Gudgeon.

"What do you want, Lupin?" Sirius asked testily as Remus approached.

Remus glanced again at Peter, and again he regained his determination and faced the other boys confidently. "I just thought I ought to tell you that Peter didn't know I was going to McGonagall last night," Remus said, causing another jolt of surprise and confusion to race through Peter's mind. _Remus_ had gone to McGonagall? "If you're going to be a couple pillocks over this, you might as well have your facts straight."

Sirius didn't seem impressed by this speech. "That's nice," he said.

"Just lay off, alright?" Remus muttered, so softly that Peter had to strain to hear. "He hasn't done anything wrong."

A malicious grin appeared on James' face. "So you admit you were wrong."

Remus didn't respond at first, but his grip on his bag tightened. "Whatever you said to Peter this morning's really eating at him. And I don't like seeing my friends hurt, so—"

"Yeah, yeah," said James. "We get it. 'Play nice.'"

"Now bugger off," Sirius added.

And, after a moment of pained silence, Remus turned and hurried out of the Great Hall.

More confused now than when he'd first come down from Gryffindor Tower, Peter stared after Remus and then at his other two friends, who seemed unconcerned that they'd just chased Remus out of the room. It sounded as though Remus had got James and Sirius in trouble with Professor McGonagall, but Peter couldn't imagine Remus doing that. Although Remus rarely took part in the mischief his friends got up to, he'd known about everything they did since September, and he'd never ratted them out before.

So why now?

At the moment, Peter didn't care what Remus had done. James and Sirius may have chosen to ignore the wounded expression in Remus' eyes as he fled the Great Hall, but Peter noticed, and if the others wouldn't make sure Remus was alright, then Peter would have to do it himself. Grabbing his bag, Peter ran after Remus.

-.-.-

After ten minutes of searching, Peter found Remus at a remote table in a dim corner of the library, using his schoolbag like a pillow. He looked up as Peter approached and furrowed his brow.

"They aren't still giving you a hard time, are they?"

Peter paused by the last row of bookshelves. "No," he said. "I mean, I don't know. I didn't stay to find out. I wanted to see if you were alright."

Surprise showed on Remus' face. "Why?"

"Because you're my friend," said Peter, amazed that he would have to explain something so simple to someone as bright as Remus. "And James and Sirius are being gits."

Burying his face in his bag, Remus shook his head. "You wouldn't say that if you knew what happened."

"Try me."

Peter crossed to the table, pulled out the chair next to Remus, and sat down. Slowly, Remus met his eyes, and Peter gave him an encouraging smile.

Remus bit his lip. "I'm sure James and Sirius would tell you," he said haltingly. "Why aren't you asking them?"

"I already told you. They're acting like gits right now." Peter shrugged. "Besides, I want to hear what _you_ have to say."

With a small smile, Remus drummed his fingers on the table. "There's not much to tell. I just didn't want them to get hurt."

"Is there really something in the forest, do you think?"

Remus' lips quirked downward. "I don't know," he said shortly, but when Peter didn't respond, he shrugged irritably. "It's not as though I've _seen_ whatever's in there, but you've heard what people are saying. What they've seen and heard in the forest. It has to be more than just rumors."

Peter nodded once, unsure what to say to that. Remus' suspicions were enough to give him pause, but James and Sirius were bolder than Peter by far. It would take solid proof to convince them of any danger in the forest. As long as it was just fear and rumor, they would see it as a challenge to be tackled, a test of their Gryffindor courage.

"When they didn't listen to me, I…" Remus paused. "I don't know. I panicked. I almost went after them myself, so the professors wouldn't find out, but what good would I be to them? I can't—" He faltered and ran a hand through his hair. "If it _is_ a murderer in there, I'd just get myself killed, too."

"So you went to McGonagall?" Peter asked.

"I didn't _want_ to get them in trouble," Remus said, fixing Peter with a pleading look. "I just wanted them to be safe."

"I know."

Remus swallowed thickly and studied Peter for a long moment. "You do?"

"I do," said Peter. "And I think you did the right thing. It's not _your_ fault they were out of bounds."

"But I betrayed them."

"No, you didn't."

Remus frowned. "I went to McGonagall."

"To help them." Peter shook his head. "You were doing what you thought was best for them, and if there really is something in the forest, you might've saved their lives. I don't think that makes you a traitor at all!"

"I broke their trust," Remus insisted, eyes downcast. "They trusted me to keep their secret, and I went to McGonagall with it."

For a while, Peter was silent, watching students moving between the bookshelves. It seemed to be getting close to the start of lessons, but so far, no one had disturbed him and Remus. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Remus drop his head back onto his bag, as though weighted down by guilt. He looked tired and entirely convinced that James and Sirius were right to hate him.

At length, Peter sighed. "You know what I think?"

Remus looked up, but didn't speak.

"I think some things are more important than keeping secrets." Peter tugged at the sleeves of his robe, feeling the force of Remus' gaze but unable to meet it. "My dad always said that real friends know when to keep a secret and when to get help. James and Sirius don't like it because they don't understand."

"Then they'll always hate me, said Remus.

"No, they won't!"

With a sad smile, Remus shook his head. "They don't want to understand why I went to McGonagall. They don't even want to talk to me."

"Then _I'll_ make them understand," said Peter.

At this fierce declaration, Remus looked taken aback. "You'd do that?"

Peter nodded firmly. "They might not listen to me, but I'll do what I can. They're lucky to have a friend like you, even if they're too thick to see it."

For a long while, Remus was silent, and Peter glanced around the library. Most of the other students had left by now, and Peter's watch read five till. If they didn't leave soon, they would be late to class. Clearing his throat, Peter met Remus' eyes and nodded toward the door. Both boy stood, shouldered their bags, and started for the door.

Halfway there, Remus' steps slowed. "Peter?"

Peter turned. "Yeah?"

"Thanks," said Remus. "For everything. I..." He ducked his head, cheeks reddening. "I'm really glad I've got you for a friend."

-.-.-

Peter glanced up from his essay as the Fat Lady's portrait swung open. At the sight of James and Sirius, looking tired and grouchy, Peter sucked in a sharp breath. He glanced toward the dormitory stairs, wondering if he had time to run away, but he reminded himself of his promise to Remus. He had to make the others understand.

"Hey, Pete," said James with a yawn and no trace of anger or irritation. He claimed the chair to Peter's right as Sirius sat on Peter's other side.

"We heard you didn't know about Remus going to McGonagall," Sirius said – and was that a trace of remorse in his voice?

Peter quickly shook his head, and the words came tumbling out without any conscious thought. "I'd never get you into trouble, I swear! Remus was just reading when I went to bed. I didn't know—" He bit down on his tongue. That wasn't how he'd wanted start this conversation_._ He opened his mouth to say something in Remus' defense, but James was already waving his hand.

"S'alright. I know we can trust _you_."

Managing a small smile (because James seemed to mean that as a compliment), Peter sat up straighter and trying to think of a way to make his friends see that Remus had only wanted to protect them— without making them angry at Peter all over again. He'd been thinking it over all day, but with no success. His eyes found the copy of _Basic Arithmantic Theory_ Remus had left when he left for St. Mungo's, and a sudden surge of anger wiped away his smile. With all the stress of his mother's illness, Remus certainly didn't need his best friends getting angry at him for stupid things like this.

"McGonagall stopped by after dinner," he said, fighting not to sound too bitter. James and Sirius hadn't _deliberately_ abandoned their friend when he needed them the most, after all; it was just an unlucky coincidence. "Remus' mum is sick again."

Sirius' lip curled. "Good," he spat. "Serves him right."

"You don't mean that!" Peter gasped, staring at Sirius in horror. Sure, Sirius was angry, but to be _happy_ that Remus' mum was in St. Mungo's?

James, too, seemed incensed at Sirius' reaction, for he turned a disappointed glare on his best friend, who soon began to squirm.

"Oh, alright," Sirius said after another moment of stubborn silence. "Even Lupin doesn't deserve that." He paused, and Peter felt his stomach twist as he realized just how far this had gone, that Sirius wouldn't even call Remus by his first name. How would they react, he wondered, if Peter tried to talk about Remus right now?

Belatedly, Peter realized that Sirius had said something about sneaking out.

"We've got Astronomy tonight," Peter said.

James only shrugged and checked the time. "We've got two hours. We just won't go to Hogsmeade."

"Or the forest?" Peter asked, remembering Remus' suspicions.

The question drew a hostile look from Sirius. "Why? You gonna take a page from Lupin's book and snitch if we do?"

Peter knew this was the perfect opportunity. If he was going to stand up for Remus tonight, he wouldn't get a better opening than that. It was hard, though, harder than Peter expected, to meet Sirius' cold gray eyes and force himself to say, "No! And—"

"Relax, Peter," James cut across. "We know you wouldn't do that. And we won't go down there again so soon. Lynx would have our hides if he caught us there two nights in a row."

James continued to list the reasons not to go down to the forest, but Peter was hardly listening. He'd been so close, but the moment had passed, and Peter felt his courage slipping away. Maybe, he thought, if he waited until morning, some of Sirius' anger and James' resentment would have cooled. Maybe then he could bring up Remus' supposed betrayal without getting yelled at.

By the time Sirius relented to James' argument, Peter was ready to just get away from the subject altogether. He saw the familiar mischievous gleam in his friends' eyes and stood, resigning himself to a night of trouble-making. It was, after all, preferable to listening to them rant about how horrid Remus was.

"Where to?" he asked, trying to sound as eager for a prank as his friends. They probably didn't buy it, but at least they were more cheerful now. It was almost enough to make Peter forget his guilt.


	6. Year Two: Blood is Thicker

**A/N: Set during chapters 21 and 22 of _James Potter and the Shrieking Shack_.**

* * *

**Blood Is Thicker**

_20 August 1967_

_Seven-year-old Peter Pettigrew awoke from a nightmare with a gasp. He struggled with his sheets for a few seconds, still lost in the dream-world of grasping claws and looming figures, before he shot upright and blinked in the light of the lone, dim lamp glowing by his bed._

_ "Mum?" he whispered, eyeing the shadows that lurked in the corners and under the closet door. When there was no answer, he drew his sheets up to his chin and called, a bit louder, "Mum?"_

_ Wind rattled the window, and Peter gave a violent start. He stared, wide-eyed, at the night sky outside, searching for any monster that might be trying to sneak in on him while he slept. Nothing moved outside; the darkness was only broken by the full moon hovering low over the roof of the house next door._

_ "Mum?" he tried again, and again received no response._

_ Peter hesitated, glancing at the pillow behind him and wondering if the nightmares would return as soon as he lay back down. He did not like the thought of leaving the safety of his bed and his night-light behind, but going back to sleep without one of his parents helping to chase away the nightmares was even less appealing._

_ With a deep breath, Peter pushed the covers back and lowered his feet to the floor. Here he paused, waiting. For_ what,_ he didn't know, but he waited just the same. Nothing happened – no monsters slithering from beneath his bed, no alarms blaring to betray his midnight foray, no mother appearing belatedly in the doorway – and so, with a fluttering heart and a hand reaching out for the thin comfort of his toy wand on the nightstand, Peter tiptoed to the door._

_ The corridor beyond was as dark as a dungeon, and Peter tried once more to call for his mother. He was dismayed (though not surprised) when she once more failed to appear in a flash of light with a mug of warm milk and a story already picked out. Not that he still needed bedtime stories, of course… but he did like the sound of his mother's voice, and Beedle's tales were among his favourites._

_ He pattered down the hallway as quickly as his sleepy legs would carry him and turned the handle of his parents' bedroom door. The room was as dark as the rest of the house, and when Peter finally reached the wide, tall bed, he found it deserted._

_ Panicking now, Peter turned and bolted for the stairs, too scared to even call for his parents again. Where were they? They hadn't left, had they? They never left him alone in the house, and certainly never at night. Had something happened?_

_ A dim, distant light caught Peter's attention, and he followed it to the kitchen, where to his immense relief he found his mother sitting at the table. Her hair was in disarray, and she stared blankly into the depths of her teacup. The lights were off, but a single stub of a candle burned in the center of the table.  
_

_ "Peter?" she asked at his sudden, stumbling entrance. She sniffled once, as though she had a cold, and ran the back of her hand across her eyes. "What are you doing up, darling?"_

_ "I… I had a nightmare," he mumbled, but that fear had faded in the face of searching for his parents. He frowned as he scuffed his feet across the worn wood floor. "Where's Dad?"_

_ Peter's mother hesitated, swirling her tea. "He had work to do."_

_ "Oh." Peter's frown deepened. Why was his father working in the middle of the night? He was always home by suppertime, and Peter couldn't remember him ever leaving again before morning. Certainly not on a Sunday._

_ But Peter's mother didn't give him time to ask questions, instead bustling him off to bed with a glass of water and a promise to stay by his side until he fell asleep._

_-.-.-_

_ In the coming year, Peter noticed his father's absence several more times, always in the dead of night when Peter was already put to bed. He would hear the _crack_ of apparition through his window as he lay drowsing, or he would wake and catch his father returning home, or sleeping on the sofa, or heading off to work hours later than normal. It seemed to happen once every few months, but if he asked about it, his mother always brushed away his concerns with half explanations of, "It's only something for work."_

_ Peter knew only one thing for certain: his father had never worked through the night before he transferred to the Beast Division._

_-.-.-_

_3 May 1969_

_ He was roused by a soft hand on his cheek and his mother whispering his name. Yawning, Peter blinked against the thin morning light. His mother sat on the edge of his bed, smiling weakly as tears rolled down her cheek._

_ Peter came fully awake at once and jerked upright, aware that something was wrong, but not yet sure what._

_ "Mum?" he asked tremulously. "What's…?"_

_ "It's your father. There was an… an accident last night at work."_

_ If the conversation continued beyond those words, Peter could remember none of it. He hardly remembered the rush to get dressed and floo to St. Mungo's, where he clung to his mother's hand and let her lead him to the room where his father lay, drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to even smile at his terrified son._

_ Peter's father wore a loose white robe and lay under a crisp white blanket, so Peter could see nothing of his wounds, but he could hardly fail to notice the pallor of his skin, the circles under his eyes, the sweat beading on his brow. Peter had never seen death, but he imagined it looked something like his father did in that moment. He stared up at his mother with wide, watering eyes, begging for reassurance but afraid to ask questions to which he didn't want to know the answer. His mother gazed back at him, tears in her eyes to match the tears in her son's, and pulled him into a trembling embrace.  
_

_ For several long hours, Peter and his mother kept silent vigil at the bedside, Peter on his mother's lap, her hand stroking his hair as his eyes remained fixed on his father's still form. Once and only once, when a Healer came to check his condition, did Peter catch a glimpse of the yards and yards of bandages wrapped around his father's torso. In the midst of so much white, the crimson stains stood out like beacons, and Peter felt his dread grow._

_ "How is he?" Peter's mother asked tentatively after a few moments._

_ The Healer looked grim. "It could be worse. I don't see any bite wounds, and he doesn't appear to have been infected, but he'll have these scars forever. To be honest, Mrs. Pettigrew…" He hesitated. "Your husband is lucky to be alive."_

_ Peter gasped, eyes riveted to his father's face. Thoughts of a life without his father pounded in his aching head, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. He'd known since he arrived that it was bad, but to hear the Healer speak so bluntly made the danger more real, somehow.  
_

_ "But he _will_ survive?" Peter's mother pressed, tightening her hold on her son._

_ With a weary smile, the Healer nodded. "The internal damage was minimal, fortunately. The only real danger was blood loss, and we've managed to slow it enough for the blood-replenishing potions to do their job. It will take time, but I'm confident he'll make a full recovery."_

_ Peter's mother sighed, but managed a small, tired smile as some of the tension drained out of her rigid frame. "Thank you."_

_ "Of course, Mrs. Pettigrew. If you have any further questions, don't hesitate to ask."_

_ The Healer made to leave, but Peter called after him, "Wait!"_

_ "Yes?" the Healer asked, turning back toward them._

_ "What was it?" The question tumbled out before Peter could stop it, and he dropped his eyes guiltily. "The thing that hurt my dad," he added as explanation._

_ The man paused, seemingly surprised, and glanced at Peter's mother, who sighed. She turned Peter around on her lap and placed a hand on his cheek. "Look at me, love. You know your dad works for the Ministry?"_

_ Peter nodded. "In the Creature place."_

_ "Yes." She smiled. "The Creature place. It's his job to protect people from dark creatures who might try to hurt them, and sometimes that means he has to do dangerous things."_

_ "And he was protecting people last night?" Peter guessed.  
_

_ Nodding, she smoothed his hair down. "Yes, Peter. That's exactly what he was doing."_

_ "From what__?"_

_ For a long moment, his mother looked as though she didn't want to answer him. Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping, and she looked Peter in the eye. "Werewolves," she said. "It was a werewolf who did this to him."_

-.-.-

Peter pestered his parents on and off for the next several weeks for details about his father's job and how werewolves fit in, but they remained frustratingly tight-lipped. Even when, in the coming months, his father came home in the morning with bandages around a fresh wound, his parents told him it was just a minor burn from a Salamander they'd found someone keeping as a pet or a bite from a Grindylow. Peter always knew better.

He never told his parents, but he kept track of full moons for two years after the attack on his father. Each month, he would lie away in bed watching the clock hands creep around in slow circles, waiting for the sound of apparition. Months when his father stayed home, Peter would succumb to exhaustion sometime after midnight and, upon waking in the morning, would immediately go in search of his father to assure himself that there hadn't been another attack.

Nights that his father _did_ go were even worse, for Peter couldn't sleep at all except in short, fitful spurts full of dark dreams.

When he started at Hogwarts, it was easier to forget the lunar cycle. Homework, new friends, pranks and detentions consumed his attention, and he rarely had trouble sleeping. The windows in the dormitory faced north, at any rate, and Peter would have had to climb halfway into the night to be able to spot the moon.

By the spring term of his second year, Peter hardly spared the moon a second thought except, occasionally, during Astronomy. He had been somewhat startled to realize that he was the only one who remembered their two midnight lessons under the full moon with any clarity... and that Remus had been absent both times. Even more surprisingly, James and Sirius had seemed to think there was some significance to this fact.

Personally, Peter thought the werewolf theory was rubbish. So Mrs. Lupin had been ill for two full moons in two years. In the two years after the attack on his father, Peter had felt ill nearly every month, and had stayed home from school the day after the full moon four times. That didn't make Peter a werewolf.

And yet here they were, nearly two months later, holed up in a library researching werewolves because Sirius was so ruddy _certain_ that Remus was a werewolf.

-.-.-

6 April 1973

Peter turned a page of _Werewolves in the Dark and Other Creatures of the Night_ with a resentful glower at his friends, who were completely lost in their own books. James, at least, was not yet convinced Remus was a monster. Sirius, on the other hand…

James looked up sharply from his book and caught Peter's gaze. "We still don't know he's a werewolf," he said stubbornly. "I mean, look, I feel bad for any werewolf who's got to go through this rubbish, but Remus is just a normal kid. We'd know if he was hurting like this."

Fighting down a triumphant smile, Peter nodded. He'd read aloud a passage on the transformation with the hope that it would make his friends see how utterly ridiculous Sirius' theory was. Sirius had started with Mrs. Lupin's occasional illness on the full moon and made a truly impressive mental leap to arrive at the conclusion that Remus's body tore itself apart and reformed itself into a different shape every month. It was completely mental.

It was a relief to know that James agreed with Peter.

"Just keep looking," Sirius muttered, levitating his book to the reshelving cart and grabbing another. "We'll find your proof sooner or later."

Sirius continued reading, and James followed suit a moment later, but Peter went on glaring at Sirius, frustration raging inside of him. _Why_ was Sirius so determined that this be true? Remus was a nice bloke, a good friend, and absolutely _not_ a rampaging beast. Peter couldn't help but feel indignant on Remus' behalf. Accusing Remus of being a werewolf because he'd been away from Hogwarts for two full moons was like accusing Sirius of being a murderer because his last name was Black – worse, in fact. At least there was something to the Black family reputation.

Peter idly flipped another page in his book. He had half a mind to go straight to Remus with this ridiculous theory. It would take ten seconds for Remus to laugh and question Sirius' sanity, and then they could put this all behind them.

With a _BANG!_ that startled Peter out of his thoughts, James slammed his book down onto the table. Madam Pince shushed them, but James seemed not to have heard. Whatever he had just read, he was _livid_. Perhaps he'd finally realized how insulting it was to compare their friend to something like a werewolf, and he was preparing to lay into Sirius for even suggesting it.

But James' lips remained tightly sealed as he sent the book flying toward the reshelving cart, and Peter reluctantly turned back to his book. Maybe he could find irrefutable proof that Remus was in no way a werewolf – like an aversion to chocolate or glowing red eyes at the new moon being telltale signs of lycanthropy.

When he turned the next page, Peter nearly fell out of his seat. The right-hand page was covered with pictures of open wounds gleaming with fresh blood and exposed bone, arms that ended in mangled stumps, and deep, parallel gashes running the length of a man's back. The page was overwhelmingly crimson, and the sight made Peter's stomach turn.

His mind turned to his father, lying weak and pale in the bed at St. Mungo's, and with a choked sob, Peter hurled the book at the cart where their other discarded books sat.

"What was that?" Sirius asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

Peter wanted to hex him - for dredging up painful memories, for trying to paint Remus as... one of _them_.

"Victims," Peter said shortly, shaking his head to rid himself of thoughts of what ghastly wounds his father's bandages had hidden. He'd seen the scars since then, and that was bad enough. "You don't want to see."

Sirius shrugged disinterestedly. "You're right," he said, holding up the book in his hands. "Reading about it's bad enough. Listen to this— _Wounds inflicted by werewolves are cursed wounds and cannot be healed magically, although certain herbs and potions can provide partial relief. This dark magic resides in both teeth and claws, so both bite and scratch wounds will leave permanent scars._"

Peter nearly scoffed at this. Of course the scars were permanent. It had taken a month for Peter's father to stop wincing every time he bent down or apparated or twisted wrong. He still wore his shirt to bed and never went swimming when they went on holiday. He would always have that ugly, twisted scar on his side to remind Peter of the night he almost lost his father.

_It's dark magic is what it is,_ thought Peter dismally. _The darkest magic there is._ And Remus couldn't be capable of dark magic.

He slowly became aware that James and Sirius wore twin looks of horror. As one, they tore into their books with urgent haste, ignoring Peter's bewildered looks. He'd missed something, obviously, but what?

"Here!" Sirius cried. "_In order to prevent themselves attacking nearby humans, many werewolves lock themselves away for their monthly transformations. Frustrated by their confinement and lack of prey, and attracted by the lingering human scent of their own blood, these werewolves will_—" Sirius swallowed— "_will b-bite and scratch themselves…_" He turned to James, looking ill. "I didn't… I didn't realize…"

And, to Peter's horror, the doubt that had burned in James' eyes all evening faded, replaced with horror and... acceptance.

_Stop!_ he wanted to scream. _You're wrong! Stop lumping Remus together with those monsters!_ Instead, he only made a small, pitiful sound. He shook his head and forced himself to speak. "Come on guys," he said desperately, urging them to see sense. "Be serious! Remus isn't a werewolf! We haven't got any proof!"

"No," said James without conviction. "We haven't."

Peter blinked back angry tears. Why couldn't he make them see? It was stupid – completely, painfully _idiotic_ – to entertain thoughts of Remus being a werewolf. But James and Sirius were stubborn, and Peter was helpless to talk them out of their mad theory.

James gasped, his book falling to the table.

"James?" Peter asked nervously.

Sirius frowned. "You alright, mate?"

"The Shack," James said.

"What?"

"The Shack." James ran his hands through his hair in agitation. "The Shrieking Shack. Don't you remember? We went down there with Remus, and it was as quiet as a toadstool. Then Remus went to 'see his mum,' and we go back, and… and…"

Peter felt lightheaded as he remembered the screams. The pained screams. It had been a full moon. It could easily have been a werewolf transforming – and Peter remembered the description of the transformation he'd read just ten minutes ago.

"The screams?" Sirius asked, obviously thinking along the same lines as Peter.

"No," said Peter, more to himself than to his friends. "No, it can't be." A werewolf, maybe, but not Remus. No way. It couldn't have been Remus screaming like that, because that would mean that Remus was…

"The moon was full," James said.

Peter screwed his eyes shut, finding it suddenly difficult to draw breath. _No_, he thought. _He's not. He's _not!

"Damn it!" Sirius bellowed into the silence, lurching to his feet.

Madam Pince stalked toward them from the silent reaches of the library, scowling. "Really!" she huffed. "This is a _library_. Show some respect!"

"But it's not bloody fair!" Sirius roared.

Madam Pince drew back, looking affronted. "Young man, if you don't calm down this instant, I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"

"But he's—"

"Sirius!" James snapped.

Sirius shot James a venomous glare. "Yeah, yeah." Rolling his eyes, Sirius sent a pile of books crashing into the wall by the reshelving cart.

Madam Pince gasped. "What on _Earth_ are you doing?"

"Cleaning up," Sirius snarled, banishing another stack of books with even less finesse. "If you wanna toss me out, then go ahead!"

James nudged Peter. "Get him out of here," he hissed.

Peter reluctantly obeyed, though he tugged only half-heartedly on Sirius' sleeve, and it took a glare from both James and Madam Pince to get him moving.

Relieved to finally get away from all the books on werewolves, Peter stumped after Sirius in silence, only to stop short as he caught sight of Remus himself, standing just inside the library doors and looking startled to find his friends so quickly.

"Sirius?" Remus asked, frowning. "What are you doing here? I thought you were off with James."

Sirius stood frozen, gaping stupidly at Remus, whose frowned only deepened.

"He wasn't distracting you, was he, Peter? I was just coming to see if you needed help."

Like Sirius, Peter found he couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't hardly breathe with Remus standing right there. _Werewolf, he's a werewolf,_ thudded through his head with each frantic heartbeat, and his mind couldn't mount a coherent argument to refute it. _He's a werewolf. He's just like the thing that attacked Dad._

Remus opened his mouth to say something, but just then, James appeared at the end of a row of shelves.

"Alright, Sirius. What the bloody hell was—"

"James," said Remus, startled. "_You're_ here, too?"

_Werewolf, werewolf, he's werewolf. _He felt small and scared and confused, as though he were eight years old again and staring at his father's battered body. _Accident at work – lucky to be alive – protecting people from werewolves, from monsters._ Peter felt himself shaking as he stared at Remus, whose hand reached up to adjust his bag – a scarred hand, scarred like Peter's father. Cursed wounds, scars that would never fade.

_Remus is a werewolf_.

-.-.-

Peter didn't remember running out of the library, didn't remember how he got back to Gryffindor Tower, or whether he'd said anything to Remus before leaving. He only remembered collapsing on his bed and burying his face in his pillow, shaking all over and sweating like he had a fever.

_He's a werewolf. Remus is a werewolf. My best friend is a werewolf._

He didn't know what it was he found so terrifying about the prospect of Remus being a werewolf: that a ruthless killer could hide behind a face as kind and gentle as Remus'? Or that Peter's father might have been attacked by someone with a good heart and a kind will? Because if that were true, then it meant no one was truly to blame for what happened to his father, and Peter found the thought disturbing. If no one was at fault, then why had it happened? Where was the logic in it all?

He tried to deny it, tried to pretend he didn't see. He didn't _want_ Remus to be a werewolf. Remus was his friend – his best friend – who helped with homework and pranks, who laughed at jokes and listened to complaints and always knew what Peter needed to hear. Werewolves were beasts who ruined lives, destroyed families, stirred up nightmares in little boys whose fathers had gone off to fight monsters in the dead of night.

Remus was everything werewolves were not, and Peter could not reconcile the two in his mind. He didn't even want to try.

And so, when James chased him up to the dormitory that evening, Peter refused to admit what he knew to be true.

"You're wrong."

James blinked. "What?"

"You're wrong," Peter repeated, doggedly avoiding James' gaze. If he looked at James, then James would see the truth in Peter's eyes; he would know that Peter was lying when he said he didn't believe them. "You and Sirius. You're wrong. Remus isn't a—" He almost lost his composure, but managed to force the word out: "werewolf."

James frowned. "What makes you say that?"

Tears prickled in Peter's eyes, but he lifted his head to glare at James. "What makes _you_ say he _is_? A couple of coincidences and you're both convinced it's true! You haven't got any proof." He shook his head stubbornly. "He's _not_ a werewolf. He can't be!"

"But…" James glanced aside, and for a heart-stopping minute, Peter thought he might argue the point. But to Peter's relief, he only sighed. "No, you're right. I think we're on to something here, Peter, I really do. But we won't do anything until we've got actual proof. Alright?"

Slowly, Peter nodded.

"And Peter?" James asked. "I know this is weird, but you've got to try not to run away every time Remus walks into the room."

Flushing, Peter nodded. "I know. It's just…" That seeing Remus, knowing he was a werewolf, reminded Peter of the attack, and it felt like a betrayal to befriend a werewolf, knowing that one had nearly killed his father.

James placed a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder. "I know," he said. "Believe me, Peter, I know."

Peter wanted to laugh, to tell James that he couldn't possibly know what Peter was feeling, but he held his tongue.

"This'll take some getting used to," James went on, oblivious to Peter's thoughts. "And Merlin only knows how we're gonna bring this up with him when the time comes." He ran a hand through his hair, blew out a long breath, and smiled at Peter. "But he's still Remus, right?"

Of course he was still Remus. _Remus_ wasn't the problem. It was what happened on full moons – and what Peter's parents would say if they knew. But James didn't need to know all that. "Right."

"Just sleep on it," James suggested. "Things'll look better in the morning."

Peter sincerely hoped so, but somehow, he didn't think it would be that easy.

-.-.-

In the coming days, Peter found it increasingly difficult to be in the same room as Remus. It wasn't that he hated Remus; quite the opposite, really. He still enjoyed Remus' company, still found him kind and witty and eager to help. But every minute he spent with Remus was laced with guilt.

Peter felt as though he were being pulled in two different directions. On the one hand was his family, who had been strained to bursting by one full moon patrol after another. His father had dedicated his life to keeping people safe from werewolves. If Peter's parents knew a werewolf was at Hogwarts, they would have him expelled. If they knew Peter had befriended a werewolf, they would be shocked, disappointed, angry. _Hurt._ And they'd been hurt enough already.

On the other hand were his friends. Remus had never hurt anyone, and certainly not Peter. He was thirteen years old and as innocent as Peter, and Peter wanted to go on being friends, but he didn't know if he could. If it was a choice between family and friends, between three boy he'd known for less than two years and his own blood relatives… How could Peter _not_ choose his family?

-.-.-

14 April 1973

It was with great reluctance that Peter let himself be talked into spending Saturday night, the night of the full moon, sitting up behind bedcurtains and privacy spells, listening to James and Sirius enumerate all their proof of Remus' condition. Peter already knew they were telling the truth, and he had hoped that if he denied it long enough, they would give up their crusade.

When that failed, however, Peter decided to hear them out and see if he could cast their convictions into doubt. If the truth never came out, then maybe Peter could bury his guilt and go on being friends with Remus.

But Peter had trouble poking holes in their theory. What had started as tenuous connections and sweeping assumptions had become a mountain of evidence that even Peter couldn't deny. The conversation lasted well into the night, and Peter heard each new point with growing resignation. After this, there could be no pretending. Remus was a werewolf, and Peter had to choose: stick with Remus, despite his condition, or stay loyal to his parents.

"You see, Peter?" James asked softly after a moment of silence. "What sort of detention lasts this long? He's been gone almost six hours, and curfew was at ten!"

"He's always gone during the full moon," Sirius added, "and half the time he comes back looking like hell."

"He's a werewolf." James' voice was remarkably steady. "There's no other explanation."

Shaking his head, Peter clenched his fists in his lap.

"No," he whispered, wishing he knew what to think, how to feel. He wanted to hold onto both – his family _and_ his friends – but he wasn't sure if that was even possible anymore. "No, he can't be! Th-they wouldn't let something like that in a school!"

Peter knew at once it had been a mistake. Sirius's eyes flashed, and he towered over Peter on the bed.

"_Something like what?_" he demanded. "Go on, Peter. Tell us what you meant."

"Sirius…" James warned.

Peter licked his lips nervously, knowing he shouldn't say what he was thinking, knowing James and Sirius wouldn't like it. But he had to. He owed it to his father. "Y-you know what werewolves are. They say they're one of the most dangerous dark creatures—"

"DANGEROUS!" Sirius roared. "_Dangerous?_ You think Remus— Remus Lupin, the bloke who conjured that shield when Lynx tried to hex me with_ Diffindo_— who got the Whomping Willow to stop bludgeoning Davey into paste— who spun that story for McGonagall so the rest of us didn't get caught— You think he's a bloody _dangerous dark creature?_"

Peter's heart twisted at Sirius' words, which so accurately summed up his thoughts over the past week. Because Remus _didn't_ seem dangerous, or evil, or anything of the sort. But Peter knew what werewolves could do. _They_ were dangerous, and that meant _Remus_ was dangerous, as much as Peter hated to admit it. But James and Sirius refused to see that.

"Come on, Peter," said James gently. "You know him better than that."

Peter scowled. "And what about during the full moon? You think he's harmless _then_?"

"What does it matter what he's like then?" James asked, shaking his head. "He spends the whole night in the Shrieking Shack, doesn't he? It's not like he's transforming in the toilets!"

"You didn't see!" Peter argued, thinking of his father, in St. Mungo's and at home, bleeding, scarred, pained. He almost told them – almost. But the words stuck in his throat, and so he chose a different tack. "You didn't see the pictures in that book! Do you know what werewolves do to the people they attack? I do!"

Sirius lunged forward, and Peter dove behind James for protection. "_That happened to Remus_!" Sirius seethed. "Whatever you saw, Peter, it happened to Remus when he got bit! You _know_ he'd never let himself do that to anyone else, but someone did it to him!"

"You've got to understand," James urged, twisting to fix Peter with a pleading look. "Remus is the victim in all this. Remus is the one that's hurting. He needs us, Peter!"

_He's not the _only_ victim._ Peter scrambled off the bed, throwing the curtains aside and scrambling out into the darkness of the dormitory. Yes, Remus had suffered, but so had others. Just because someone felt pain didn't mean they couldn't cause it, as well.

"Peter!" James hissed.

"Leave me alone!"

James grabbed his arm. "Wait!"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Peter mumbled, feeling tears building. "I… I just can't. Not now. Please, James…"

James' grasp lingered for a moment, but it soon relaxed and Peter managed to pull free and flee to the safety and privacy of his own bed. He hated James and Sirius in that moment for forcing the decision on him so soon. Everything had happened too quickly, and Peter was still reeling. It wasn't that he hated Remus or wanted to turn his back on him, but he couldn't betray his parents without being _absolutely_ certain it was the right thing to do.

For the first time in a while, Peter found himself unable to sleep as his thoughts dwelt on werewolves, his father, and the full moon.


	7. Year Two: The Second Choice

**A/N: Takes place during chapter 24 of _James Potter and the Shrieking Shack_.  
**

* * *

**The Second Choice**

"There you are, Peter."

Peter froze. _No,_ he thought. _No, he's not here. He can't be here! _Slowly, he raised his eyes and, sure enough, there was Remus, bag slung over his shoulder, a harried smile on his face.

"R-Remus," said Peter, glancing around the quiet library. He'd been spending most of his time here for the last month, sometimes with Frank and Alexander, more often alone. With Remus doing most of his homework in the common room lately, the library was the best place to go to avoid his (former) best friend and – more importantly – James and Sirius.

Leaving his old friends behind had been harder than Peter had expected – much harder. James in particular seemed determined to bring Peter around, to the point that Peter had nearly spilled everything to James on more than one occasion. But he'd held his tongue, though he wasn't entirely sure why. If James knew, he might be more willing to let Peter do as he pleased. Peter could explain that he _liked_ Remus, that he would never betray Remus' secret, but that he simply couldn't pretend it didn't matter. Maybe then James and Sirius would take pity on him and stop looking at him like he was a Slytherin who'd wormed his way into their House.

But Peter didn't deserve their pity. He could have chosen Remus; there was nothing stopping him. Nothing, that was, except Peter himself.

If there was one good thing about the last month, it was that Sirius had quickly given up talking to Peter. Sirius had chosen his friends over his family, had decided that James and Remus and – yes – even Peter were more important than his parents, his brother, his whole Slytherin family. Sometimes, Peter wished he had the same courage. If Sirius had been as persistent as James, Peter didn't think he would have been able to handle the guilt.

At the moment, however, Peter was stuck in the library with Remus, who was giving him an odd look. Peter forced a smile.

"What are you doing here?"

Remus' brows twitched together momentarily before he controlled his expression. "James and Sirius said you were looking for me."

"Oh." Peter felt a surge of resentment. Of course James and Sirius were behind this. Of course they thought it would be a brilliant idea to shove Peter and Remus together and watch what happened. It wasn't as though Peter could just send Remus on his way.

Shuffling his feet nervously, Remus sent a glance over his shoulder, towards the doors. "They said you needed help with Charms?"

"Oh," said Peter, stupidly. "I… er… Well, I'm almost done with it, so…" This was a lie, of course. Peter had been working on the assignment, which was due in the morning, since his last lesson let out, and though he was nearly out of things to say, he needed another four inches. He just didn't understand it, and despite Frank and Alexander's attempt to help, he'd only grown more frustrated and more distracted as the evening wore on. In the end, he'd told Frank and Alexander that he would finish it on his own.

"Oh." Remus tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

_Merlin,_ thought Peter, drumming his fingers on the table. _Look at us. We used to be able to talk about anything…_

Peter felt a pang of guilt at the thought. Before this month, Peter had spent more time with Remus than with James and Sirius, or anyone else for that matter. Sure, it had usually been time spent working on homework, but they had talked as they worked. They'd complained about Lynx and laughed over James' and Sirius' latest detentions; they'd shared their dreams for the future and stories about their families.

Now Peter couldn't even accept help from Remus, the one person who could make any sort of sense out of Peter's pathetic attempt at an essay.

But there was no helping it, Peter reminded himself. Remus was a werewolf, and Peter's father fought werewolves almost every month. Peter couldn't go on being friends with Remus, even if…

_Even if what?_ he wondered. He had Frank and Alexander now. Maybe he didn't know them as well as he had known – had _thought_ he knew – Remus and the others, but that would change with time.

"Well, if you don't need anything," said Remus uncomfortably, "I guess I'll head back up to the room." He paused, as though waiting for Peter to offer to walk back together. When Peter remained rooted in his seat, Remus reluctantly turned and started for the door.

"Remus, wait!"

Remus turned.

Flushing, Peter dropped his gaze. Why had he done that? The words had come out without any thought or will on Peter's part, but now there they were, hanging in the thick silence between them, and Remus was staring at him expectantly.

"I… er…" Peter fiddled with his quill, feeling torn. He couldn't… What would his father say? But it was only homework, Peter reasoned. He had class with Remus; how was homework any worse? "It's probably rubbish," he said in a small voice. "My essay. Could you – if you don't mind – I mean, if you looked it over, could you, maybe, help me fix it up a bit?"

There. He'd said it. Guilt and unease and faint horror burbled in his gut, but underneath it all… was that… relief?

Remus smiled as he walked back to the table, and Peter found himself smiling in return. Not a fake smile, or a nervous grin, but an honest smile.

"I'd be happy to," said Remus.

Peter handed over his half-finished essay, and fidgeted as Remus read through it. He tried to tell himself he was just nervous to hear Remus' criticism, but he knew that wasn't it; Remus had been helping him with homework on and off for the last two years, and Peter knew he would never be mean about it. He always had suggestions for Peter on how to improve his work, but he never made Peter feel stupid or useless – unlike Frank's patient (but ever-more-clipped) explanations and Alexander's blatant exasperation with Peter's inability to grasp the basic concepts.

No, the problem had nothing to do with the essay. The problem was that, horrible as it was, Peter had _missed_ spending time with Remus like this. He'd picked his family over his friends, and now he found he couldn't even commit to it.

_Remus is a werewolf,_ he reminded himself, as he had countless times over the last month. The fear that had once accompanied the thought had long since faded, leaving behind a kind of bewildered guilt. Because Remus didn't _seem_ like a werewolf, now did he?

Remus soon finished reading Peter's work and began to point out things for Peter to change or add. Peter dutifully scribbled down all the changes, noticing with some confusion the way Remus kept glancing around the room, or down at his watch. Every so often, Remus would lift a hand to rub his temple, as though he had a headache, but he said nothing and kept on helping Peter with the same patient smile he always wore.

Peter stopped writing in the middle of a sentence and chanced a glance at Remus, who was staring blankly at the bookshelves beside them.

"Are you alright, Remus?"

"What?" Remus turned back to Peter, blinked a few times, and shook his head. "Fine."

Peter frowned. "You seem… distracted. Have you got a headache?"

"It's nothing," said Remus quickly. "Did you get the last part? About the wand movement?"

"Yeah…" Peter hastily finished the sentence, then set his quill aside. "Listen, Remus. Thanks for all your help, but I think I can do the rest on my own. You don't have to stay if you don't want."

Remus bit his lip. "Yeah, alright. I…" He paused. "Are you doing anything this weekend?" Peter hesitated, unsure how to answer, but Remus hastened on before he could speak: "It's alright if you are. I was just thinking we could meet up like usual. It's been a while, and… well…"

"What?" Peter asked, when it became clear that Remus wasn't going to finish his thought.

Blushing, Remus grabbed his bag from the floor and set it on his lap. "I just… haven't been doing well in Potions. I'm way behind, and my grades are starting to slip. I just… I was hoping you could help me."

"You… oh…" Peter stared at the table, insides twisting. It was true that he normally helped Remus with Potions in return for Remus' help in all their other subjects, but he'd always thought it was just Remus' way of making him feel better. "But you're top of our year, Remus. I'm sure you're doing fine."

"No, I'm not." Remus ducked his head. "I could really use your help, Peter."

Another twinge in his gut made Peter squirm. "Why don't you ask James or Sirius? They're loads smarter than me."

"But you're better at Potions then either of them," said Remus. "And…"

"And?"

"It's stupid."

Peter hesitated. "You can tell me."

Smiling timidly, Remus kicked at the table leg. "I don't want them to know."

"What?" Peter asked, surprised. "Why?"

For a moment, Remus said nothing. "You all think I'm so smart," he said at last, his voice small. "I'm not, really."

"But your marks—"

"Are only as good as they are because I work at it. Until last year, I… I didn't really have friends. Maybe Lily, but even she was just someone I did homework with. I spent all my time reading and doing homework. Now, though…" Remus seemed unable to meet Peter's eyes. "With you and James and Sirius – all the pranks and detentions and sneaking around after hours – I haven't got the time to read like I used to. It's getting harder and harder to keep up with lessons. Especially Potions."

Peter swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. "That makes sense. Why don't you just tell James and Sirius that you need more time to study?"

"Because," said Remus miserably. "They're both so smart. Smarter than me."

"No, they—"

"They _are_." Remus played with the flap of his bag for a moment. "They hardly ever study. It takes them no time at all to do our homework – when they _bother_ – they don't even have to put much effort into learning the spells. And they still score almost as high as me. I just… don't want them to know how much I work at it."

Peter gaped at Remus for a moment, mind whizzing with startled thoughts. Was Remus _jealous_ of James and Sirius? Sure, Peter was jealous of them, but that was because he was stupid and useless. Remus was smart - brilliant, even - and neck-and-neck with Lily for the top spot in most of their classes. Peter envied _him_ just as much as he envied James and Sirius.

Catching Peter's stare, Remus flushed and averted his eyes. Peter snapped his mouth shut and fixed his gaze on the old, worn tabletop. Remus was jealous, just like Peter. He was insecure and timid and still finding his place among his friends - just like Peter. He didn't know why this surprised him so; it wasn't as though Remus had the same kind of effortless confidence James and Sirius possessed. It was only human.

And that, Peter realized, was exactly why it had surprised him. He'd spent so much of the past month thinking of Remus as a werewolf that he'd forgotten what else Remus was:

_Human._

"Remus?" Peter asked, glancing up. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Peter cringed. "It's just that… you don't want James and Sirius to know, but you told _me_. How come?"

Remus looked surprised at the question, and he finally met Peter's eyes. "You're my best friend," he said, as though it were obvious. Peter felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "I can't really explain it, but… James and Sirius have each other. They're both loud and confident and... excitable. I like them fine, but they don't understand me like you do." He frowned. "Don't you think so?"

For a moment, Peter couldn't answer. The guilt he'd been feeling over the past month was back again, and stronger than ever. He'd been so caught up in his own problems, his own difficulties with Remus' condition that he'd never stopped to think about what Remus must be going through – and how Remus would feel about losing Peter as a friend. He supposed he'd just assumed that Remus would be alright, since he still had James and Sirius to help him.

He'd forgotten that Remus had been his first friend at Hogwarts, and that he, Peter, may well have been Remus' first friend, too. They'd helped each other with homework for months before James and Sirius became friends with either of them.

And, if Peter was honest with himself, Remus always _had_ been his best friend.

He thought of his Sorting, when the Sorting Hat had offered him a choice. _Perhaps Gryffindor's for you, _it had said_. Being around friends like that, you could find courage of your own. You could forge your own path in life. You might even surprise yourself._

He'd spent so long wishing he could be as brave as Sirius that he'd never bothered to try. He'd never bothered to find the courage the Sorting Hat had told him was within his grasp. Maybe it was time to stop whinging and be the Gryffindor he'd chosen to be. He didn't know what his father would say if he found out about Remus, but did it really matter? _Forge your own path..._

"Yeah," said Peter slowly, smiling at Remus. "I know what you mean. I… I feel the same way."

Remus smiled back at him, and Peter felt an odd sort of lightness. Gone was the hesitancy and the guilt he'd felt when he'd chosen his father. _This_ was the right choice, Peter knew. His father protected people from werewolves, it was true, but Remus had already protected people from himself. James and Sirius were right, after all – Remus wasn't transforming in the castle, or out on the grounds. He had the Shrieking Shack, and Peter knew how hard it was to get inside, thanks to James and Sirius' undying curiosity.

Suddenly Peter felt foolish for hating werewolves because of what a few individuals had done to his father. The transformation didn't take away their ability to choose - to lock themselves away, or to transform in the open, where they put others in danger. Hating all werewolves because a few hurt people on the full moon was as silly and pointless as hating wizards because You-Know-Who used magic to kill people.

"Listen," said Remus suddenly, breaking Peter out of his thoughts. "It's getting pretty late. I think I'm going to head up."

Peter smiled. "Alright. I'll be up in a bit. And Remus?" he added as the other boy stood.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry I've been so weird the last couple weeks." He paused, wondering if he should tell Remus the truth, but he didn't think he'd be able to find the words. Best to wait for James and Sirius. "I've just had a lot on my mind."

"That's alright," said Remus.

Peter shook his head. "It's not. I shouldn't've let it get in the way of our friendship."

With a perplexed frown, Remus raised an eyebrow. "It's really no big deal, Peter."

Peter sighed, but let it drop. Maybe when they'd told Remus that they'd worked out the truth, then Peter would find the courage to tell Remus what had really been going on. Maybe not, but he'd surprised himself once already.

"We could study on Saturday," Peter offered. "Start with Potions and then work on our homework for next week?"

Smiling, Remus nodded. "Sounds good."

"Alright. See you later."

Peter watched Remus go, head spinning. He hadn't forgot what happened to his father, or the fear he'd felt. He still knew transformed werewolves were dangerous. But somehow, none of that seemed to matter. Remus was his best friend, and Peter wouldn't let anything get in the way of that ever again.


End file.
